


Strangers

by musamihi



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Gen, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-07
Updated: 2013-12-07
Packaged: 2018-01-03 22:24:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1073752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musamihi/pseuds/musamihi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate meeting - trapped at 35,000 feet, Klaus and Dorian get acquainted.  Warnings for implied gun violence and dismemberment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strangers

"Do you speak English?"

Klaus looked wearily up from his newspaper, and with an utter lack of enthusiasm met the face peering down at him. The man had - nothing, nothing at all to recommend him.

"Can you," the intruder continued, more slowly and at increased volume, "watch these," now tapping the corner of one of his frameless rectangular lenses, silver-tinted against the cold airport lighting, "my bags, for a minute? _Une minute? Comprends toi?"_ He swept his arm backwards to indicate a pile of matched luggage currently occupying three or four of the leather gate chairs.

Klaus blinked at him, and went back to the news. He heard the jangling of countless silver bracelets as the Englishman planted his hands on his hips - and the sharp click of smart shoes as he strode away with his companion. "In my father's day, you couldn't buy a bloody ticket without a jacket and tie. Now any prole putting in a few extra hours can up and off to New York on a moment's notice - remind me to check for my camera when we get back. The dear knows we were born too late, my love ..."

Klaus flipped past the sports section. 'Prole' was probably a kind description, he reflected - he hadn't so much as looked at a bar of soap in a couple of days, or a razor, or a mirror. His baggy grey sweatshirt, while perfectly suited to concealing the several ceramic gun components taped to his ribs, had seen a few napkinless meals over the course of the weekend. His jeans were about ready to split at the knees, he had clumsily shoved his hair back into a rubber band this morning on his way out of the hotel, and his old running shoes had never been much to look at. He could concede that there wasn't much to recommend him, either.

The Englishman and his small hill of carry-ons disappeared soon after the first class boarding call; several reputably dressed men and women flowed out of the gate for business class; and then, if his fellow coach passengers were not quite the sort to inspire fear in dark alleys, neither were they the picture of genteel company. Klaus paid special attention to one stout, balding man in grey who was shuffling down the jetway a few paces ahead of him, clutching a cup of coffee. After what seemed like half an hour of jostling against overstuffed leather purses, patched backpacks and the occasional child, he finally secured at least most of what was rightfully his aisle seat. He shoved his boarding pass into the back pocket of his jeans and settled in for an uncomfortable take-off. Most of these seven hours were going to drag.

The moment the seat belt sign disappeared, he tried to make a smooth and rapid getaway - but he stood no chance, no chance at all against the wave of travelers rising up on either side of him. Overhead bins slid open, luggage was handed down, dropped, passed over heads and over rows, and by the time he had a clear line of sight to the lavatory at the rear of the plane, a formidable queue had already formed. The same was true of the facilities at the front of the coach section. He pressed forward into business, where the lines were more orderly, but no shorter.

With some reluctance he brushed aside the curtain leading to first class. He would be conspicuous here, no doubt, but time was of he essence. He strode quickly down the relatively short aisle, meeting as few eyes as possible. Most of the passengers here had already acquired pillows and blankets, or were busily digging through briefcases. The unreasonably blond Englishman from the gate gave him hardly a passing glance, and then he was behind the second curtain, which hid the doors to the two lavatories and the first class galley. One of the door locks read 'vacant' - and so he shut himself in, gratefully, and turned to the mirror to take stock of his reflection, his shoulders sagging. It didn't give him very much pleasure.

There were benefits to first class, however, and he took a few minutes to avail himself of the provided packets of shaving cream and disposable safety razors. He felt half himself again as he rinsed his face off. The warm water flowing into the stainless steel sink was no substitute for a hot shower, but it was a welcome reprieve from the work at hand, which promised to be distasteful. He threw the rubber band away and combed his hair out as best he could, only to send it into disarray again when he tugged the sweatshirt over his head, and then the black T-shirt underneath it.

The surgical tape stung when he peeled it away from his chest. He set the pieces of the gun one by one on the edge of the sink and quickly screwed them together, the high clink of ceramic masked by the sound of the running faucet. He wrapped the finished product in his sweatshirt, pulled the T-shirt back on - he was going to freeze before they landed in Paris, probably, but there was nothing for that - and straightened his hair again. He found a reasonably familiar face in the mirror, this time around, and very nearly smiled.

He stepped out of the bathroom, stopped for a moment to tighten the rolled-up sweatshirt under his arm, and made his way once more past the more fortunate travelers. The Englishman had fallen into some sort of coughing fit, and was staring, red-faced, at his tray table.

On the way back to his seat Klaus glanced briefly at the man in grey, seated at the front of the coach section, still sipping at his coffee and clutching a wrinkled section of newspaper. Everything seemed to be on schedule. Nine rows further back he lowered himself into his seat, positioning the gun carefully across his lap. Everyone around him seemed more or less engrossed in their various trashy magazines, greasy catalogs and newsstand novels, which was well enough. He checked his watch - twenty minutes, a little more, and the laxative he had planted in his target's coffee would be kicking in, at which point he would have to make a note of which bathroom the man rushed off to, and the thing would be as good as done. Until then, he had not a thing to read, and not so much as a window to look out of - not that the Atlantic ocean was anything to behold, of course, from this great a height. He closed his eyes and made himself comfortable enough for a brief nap - put his seat back more than was considerate, and reached into his back pocket to remove his billfold.

... His boarding pass was missing. He was sure he had left it in his pocket - more than likely it had been tugged out when he had taken off his sweatshirt. He was torn for just a moment: going back to first class so soon after he had left would draw attention, without question. But to leave his name (false though it may have been), seat number, and itinerary lying around for anyone to pick up - if his mission should take a turn for the worse, that could prove highly inconvenient. Reluctantly he stood, the concealed weapon tucked firmly under his arm, and headed back towards the front of the plane, just barely avoiding a head-on collision with a stewardess bearing a frivolously decorated cocktail.

+++

Never one to dwell for very long on the earth's less majestic creatures, Dorian had a sadly deficient knowledge of entomology. Nevertheless he had a certain familiarity with the grander insects - anything with colorful wings, a bit of grace, and a useful metaphor thrown in - and so he was able to reflect for a moment upon the unlikely relationship between the unworthy maggot (blind, drab, writhing - thoroughly horrid) and that paragon of winged beauty, its second self, the inexplicable butterfly.

That was after he had regained his senses, of course. The shock had nearly choked him. But the airline's gin went down easily, happy chance, and so here he was.

And instinct had returned so smoothly - with great pleasure he had reached into the back pocket of his butterfly's blue jeans (an unfortunate fashion choice, but overshadowed, oh, entirely overshadowed by so many other things), and pulled out the folded boarding pass. He made note of the seat number, which could not have been very far from the back of the plane, the poor thing, and instructed the nearest stewardess to send a cocktail - and a strong one - back to that very location, post haste.

What a glorious transformation! Doubtless the hair could do with washing, but what a set of shoulders - arms - lines and shadows that belonged to marble, to bronze, to another age. Somehow he had missed the mouth and jaw, those strong, perfect angles, just soft enough; perhaps they had been lost under that unseemly growth the man had been sporting back in the airport - just one short hour ago. He really could have kicked himself.

Dorian had no illusions about the ability of a seven pound drink to right his wrongs. He was, however, more than willing to follow it up with something more effective.

He inspected the boarding pass again. Lambert, Guillaume, it read - from Washington to New York to DeGaulle. Going home, no doubt; from what, it was impossible to say. The man looked nothing like a businessman, or a diplomat, or anyone who had any business booking a transatlantic flight at all. Of course, the last five minutes had taught him an unforgettable lesson in reserving judgment.

And here was another, hard on its heels. All had been forgiven, it seemed: his statue had returned, not more than a minute after he could possibly have received the liquid apology. Dorian adjusted his cuffs meticulously, sat back - elegant as ever in wine-colored velvet, if he did say so himself - caught the gentleman's blank gaze, those wonderful, lacquer-hard, evergreen eyes - and - watched him blow right past. His butterfly disappeared again behind the curtain at the front of the plane. Dorian heard one of the lavatory doors open; shut.

Well. A bold creature, to be sure.

 _Audantes fortunas juvat_ , he had always found - fortune favors the bold. And as little as he liked the idea of exhausting his opportunities with this miracle-of-the-moment in such short order, he could never turn down anything that fell - so readily - into his lap. And then, there was a certain romance in the idea of two ships passing in the night - thirty thousand feet above the ocean, all the world in jealous darkness below them, soaring through the endless black stillness - never to meet again. Perhaps that was all he truly wanted.

But he had several hours in which to decide the extent of his pursuit, of course, and not nearly as long in which to act. He rose from his seat, kissed his - saintly, understanding, wonderfully sporting - lover on the temple, and went forward, glowing with anticipation.

+++

There was only so much area to cover in the bathroom without going through the trash, which Klaus did not intend to do. His pass was not here. It had been stupid to come back - of course someone was bound to throw it away, if anyone had found it at all. All he had achieved was to make himself even more conspicuous. The Englishman had given him the most inappropriate smile ...

He would just have to hope for the best. He cursed himself for his clumsiness, tucked his hidden gun back under his arm, and stepped back into the corridor - and there was the Englishman, just letting the curtain fall behind him. Before Klaus had any time to avert his eyes and brush past, he found himself pressed violently up against the sink, thrust once again into the aluminum surroundings of the lavatory. The man was flat against him - pawing at his chest - breathing in his ear - purring at him in he most disgustingly _satin_ French that he had ever heard. 

"Not leaving already, my dear? My most sincere, abject apologies if I have kept you waiting. You have positively stunned me; try to be patient."

Klaus felt a growl rising up in his throat. The edge of the counter bit into the backs of his legs as he tried to put some space between himself and his attacker, holding the weapon clear of him. "What are you _doing - ?"_

The plane gave a hard jolt; the gun slid from his hand and he half-dove, shoving the other man aside, to catch it just before it hit the floor. One of the sleeves unwound and fell away, revealing the silencer. The blond's smile vanished in an instant. He went pale, and then there was a blur of velvet as he whirled about and fumbled with the latch on the door. Klaus sunk one hand into his mass of curls and _pulled_ \- the Englishman lost his balance and stumbled past, reeling backwards; Klaus shoved him up against the bulkhead, clapped a hand tightly over his mouth, and held his forearm up against his throat. He held the gun, harmless enough, still half-wrapped in his sweatshirt, against the bulkhead beside the Englishman's head. 

"This is not for you," he whispered, close to his ear, suddenly engulfed in the scent of - narcissus? - as his captive struggled hopelessly against him. "I am not going to hurt you. Stop that - be quiet." He shifted his arm, to let his captive have a little air, and his thrashing subsided. He felt the rush of his desperate inhalation pass over his fingers. The man's eyes were wide, bright - but steady. He did not seem to be panicking. 

"Will you be quiet?" Klaus longed to push the man's hair away from where it was tickling unpleasantly against his face - it was falling over his nose, into his mouth, piling on his shoulder. The Englishman nodded - their foreheads touched - if he hadn't known any better, he would have said it was intentional - but the poor idiot was just afraid, no doubt.

"I am not going to hurt you," he repeated, slowly pulling his hand away from the Englishman's mouth, taking half a step back. As much as he would have liked to tell him to mind his own goddamn business and get back to his seat if he knew what was good for him, he could not afford to make an enemy at the moment, or even frighten him any further. One word to the crew, and this would go further south than it already had. "I am here to keep you safe. Do you understand? You can keep a secret, can't you?"

The Englishman nodded again. He was responding well to the gentle treatment - Klaus was pleased; it was _not_ his specialty - and seemed almost about to smile. The plane lurched again; the blond threw his arm over one of Klaus' shoulders for balance; and the door slammed open.

+++

A heavy man in a badly-cut grey suit stumbled in, pasty, sickly pale, though the door Dorian had only just managed to unlock in his rushed escape attempt. He seemed surprised for a split second and then, quite past caring, thrust an arm out towards the corridor, sending the door flying out on its hinges. "Out," he gasped, almost inaudible. And Dorian found himself standing in the dim of the curtained passage, his arm aching in the firm grasp of - whoever he was, this man with the gun - and under the gaze of a surprised yet distinctly knowing stewardess. He threw her a sheepish smile, and she retreated quickly into the cabin.

Lambert looked profoundly displeased. Dorian thought it suited him. Florid, a hard mouth, breathing heavily - from what? "I'll make sure he's all right," he said finally, releasing Dorian's arm. "Go back to your seat." The order came without so much as a glance, and Dorian found his hopes for another interlude, however brief, quite shattered.

And then, he felt the slightest twinge of conscience. Whatever this man was - before his transformation he might have guessed "criminal," and even now that seemed more than likely correct - he did not seem the type to give a damn about a sick stranger. And the weapon was meant for _someone_. He swallowed, his throat dry. "Perhaps you had better let me. He's a friend of -"

The man - hit-man? - turned to him, all his softness completely drained away. "Go back to your seat, and keep your mouth shut." He shifted his weapon, still wrapped in that horrid sweatshirt, to his right hand. "Do you understand?"

Well, he had tried. There was no arguing with what Fate had written for one man, no matter how cruel - and it was usually best not to tempt her too strongly. Dorian pivoted on one heel and made his way back to his decidedly less interesting travel companion. He hoped he looked appropriately disheveled.

The boy was a little cold to him, no wonder. But as the minutes dragged by and still no one had returned from the lavatory, he found himself too distracted to put much effort into warming him up. Half an hour later, a rather painful, breathless stretch of time interrupted only by a few pleasant memories (god, what strength - and what a face), his statue reappeared and strode past him without a look, heading once more for the back of the plane. Alone.

It was another hour before Dorian could work up the courage to go investigate. He checked both bathrooms, and then checked them again, feeling a bit weak at the knees. There was nothing - a strong chemical smell, some water sloshed over the sides of the sink. Nothing else.

He told his partner he was tired, put his seat back, and closed his eyes. It was not long before his unease turned again to curiosity. He fell asleep with a faint smile.

+++

Klaus was more than glad to feel the strange, momentary lightness in his stomach that signaled their descent. His mission had not gone according to plan, by any means: the drug had done its job too soon, though he had been careful to provide the proper dose, and there was nothing to thank but sheer luck that his target had come to the lavatory at the front of the plane rather than stay in coach. He did not like to dwell on what might have happened if even one more thing had fallen out of place. But now, at least - soon - it would be out of his hands, passed off to his men on the ground, who faced far less chance of the sort of interference he had had to deal with. They would find the body, though not in the compartment that had been agreed upon prior to takeoff; they would find the gun, in pieces, clean. If they hadn't managed to wipe the target's name off the airline's manifest by now, he would be very disappointed. All that remained was to acquire the crew's copy of the manifest, to dispose of the body and the weapon, and - the only part of the mission he had to worry about, personally - to find some way to neutralize the unexpected witness. With all the evidence on schedule to be destroyed, his accusations might not hold much weight with anyone, should he choose to make them. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

The ten minutes it took him to get off the plane - and that with every shove, insult and order he could muster without crossing the line into assault - gave him considerable cause for dread. The first class passengers might be anywhere, by now. He was confident in the ability of his men, who would be waiting for him near the security station at the end of the terminal, to apprehend anyone as - unusual - as the Englishman in question; but the more time went on, the more complicated, the more troublesome the search would be.

He need not have worried. Halfway between the gate and the security station (where two particularly watchful security guards sat, as though on break, with cigarettes and coffee cups) Klaus caught sight of a familiar red velvet jacket, half buried under blond hair that brought to mind - just for a moment - the taste of soap and flowers. The man was leaning against the wall just inside one of the dim, narrow hallways that led to the maintenance closets. Klaus made to walk straight past him, and one of his agents met his eye, just as the Englishman reached out to touch his arm. "Pardon me, friend - a moment, if you don't mind?"

Klaus glanced from side to side, his hands stuffed in his pockets, sweatshirt tied around his waist. He was no good at acting nervous, he knew. He saw his men standing up and putting out their cigarettes. "What do you want?"

"Come here, won't you?" The Englishman's smile was calm, almost smug. He cocked his head, staying well within the shadows of the hallway. His hair spilled slowly off one shoulder. "I only want to speak to you." Klaus stepped reluctantly closer. They were shielded from view on three sides, but surely - surely, the man must have known this was nothing like private?

The Englishman unbuttoned his jacket to pull a boarding pass out of the inner pocket, letting the velvet fall away from a shirt that was nowhere near large enough. He held the piece of paper up delicately beside his face. Klaus noticed for the second time that his eyes were bright - laughing. "You are a very interesting man, Guillaume - if I may call you that?"

Klaus shrugged, tightening the sweatshirt around his hips. "I don't know what you're talking about. Excuse me."

"I do appreciate a man who can lie." The Englishman laid his hand against Klaus's arm, just as he was about to make his escape. It was cool and dry, not at all what he had expected. Klaus froze, for just a moment. "I can keep quiet, when I need to. And I think you'll agree, my price is _very_ reasonable." The hand dropped to his waist, the Englishman took a step forward -

Klaus jerked away from the touch. He knocked his arm into the blond's chest and slammed him back against the wall. His face was hot; he withdrew his arm at once with a flare of obvious disgust, as though shaking off some contamination - he could still feel the man's hand on him. He turned, furious, ready to march off - somewhere, anywhere - but the Englishman shoved past him, his jaw set, his face red, his eyes flashing.

"Officers," he demanded of the two rather wary looking security guards who had the misfortune to be passing by, "I have absolutely no desire to frighten anyone, but this man is dangerous." He turned his glare back on Klaus. His back was painfully straight, and he looked fit to be tied, but his voice, at least, was perfectly collected. "We were on the same flight in from New York, and I saw him with a gun; and I have reason to believe he may have used it."

A looked appropriately grave as he rested his hand on the radio at his side, and asked Klaus to step out of the hallway and keep his hands at his sides. And as he began his casual march towards the security station - listening to J thank the Englishman politely for his discretion, and ask if he would please come along to make his statement - Klaus found it very difficult to keep from smiling. It was about time something went right, today. And it wasn't often he had any reason at all to look forward to a debriefing.


End file.
